Casualties of War
by The-Shepherd's-Daughter
Summary: A captain's duty on a fighting vessel is clear, but where does that leave those who would follow him into the unknown? For Stephen Maturin, who has sworn no oath to King and Country, has his own obligations to uphold. How can one man, in fulfilling his sworn duties, cause another to fail his own completely? (Film-verse short story)
1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:** Well, here I go again...  
After thoroughly enjoying the Hornblower TV series, I didn't think anything else could top it. Cue _Master and Commander: Far Side of the World_ and the Patrick O' Brian series. It looks like my Age of Sail obsession isn't going away any time soon! So enjoy my first foray into the world of Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin!

This short story will be broken into **three parts.**

And as always with my fics, this is certified slash free!

* * *

Another blast from the starboard cannon shook the _Surprise_ down to her very keel. The dull sound of enemy hull splintering under the bite of her shot and the screams of the enemy above the din were a telltale sign that - despite being muzzled - this aged sea dog still retained her teeth. Doctor Stephen Maturin had little time to ponder the theories of combat aboard a fighting ship of His Majesty's Navy, however, for just as he and his assistant Mr. Higgins had fended another writhing, bleeding seaman off the surgery table did another take its place - each more bloodied, battered, and disconsolate than the other before him.

As the latest casualty was pulled away from his ministrations, the Doctor paused to catch his waning breath in the stifling afternoon heat of the sick bay, the suffocating scent of salty moisture in the air mingling with that of the tangy scent of blood and gunpowder - a typical potpourri on the event of battle.

Caring not that his hands were slick with the blood of other men, the physician passed a shaking hand over his sweat drenched eyes, noting how unusually flushed his face felt at the touch. He wondered at the curious sensation for a moment, but the sound of an urgent voice in his ear roused him from his weary reverie. He had not the time to physic himself at the moment; perhaps, when the battle had waned, he could spare the time. If the Good Lord saw fit to preserve them, that is.

"Doctor! Oh please, Doctor, ya must save 'im, Doctor," came the hysterical cry, clearer now that his mind was focused on making out the frantic seaman's words. The man, ugly red gash on his forehead pouring bright blood into his eyes, bore his compatriot onto the table with his own hands, pulling on Stephen's crimson-soaked apron not unlike a petulant child as he pleaded. One glance at Higgins sent the surgeon's mate over to pry the poor man away from his superior so that he may accomplish what was being begged of him; yet as the healer's hands went to pass over the still form to search out the source of injury, they froze before any discovery could be made.

Bulging grey eyes stared sightlessly up at him, face a mottled mixture of purples and quickly fading reds, his blue lips parted slightly in a soundless plea that set to mock his savior's useless efforts. The Doctor forced the stone that had formed in his gullet to pass with a painful swallow, searching fingers coming to rest on the splinter lodged in the seaman's neck, several centimeters thick and successfully piercing the airway like a harpoon.

Seeing his superior stilled as though frozen in time, Higgins - bless the man, dense though he was but not completely a fool - took one look at the corpse laid on their table and set to work ushering the dead man's loyal friend away and then gathering volunteers to bring the pale, still form to lay with the rest of his sleeping fellows. It was as the Doctor attempted in vain to regain some of the composure he had lost - wondering why his hands had begun to convulse uncontrollably despite himself - that he became acutely aware of the lack of commotion above decks. The eerie silence punctuated the moment, stilling the pained cries of the wounded seamen clustered around him in the dim light as they all looked expectantly toward the ceiling - the same question preying heavily on their minds.

With stolen breath they all wondered: was the battle over at last?

Stephen Maturin closed his eyes briefly in soundless prayer, begging whatever almighty power that might hear him to spare their mortal forms from the punishing roar of cannon fire, the ravaging shot of pistol and the tearing of sword against flesh. His eyes had seen enough for many upon many lifetimes; he wished to see no more this day.

As if to address the question that lingered pregnantly throughout the still and silent room, the sound of shoes clattering hastily down the ladder rungs and into the hold signaled the answer they sought was approaching. Seamen and physician alike ogled with strained necks toward the door to see who bore the news and were not disappointed when Mr. Blakeney's sandy head quickly popped into view. Clambering to a stop in the doorway, he spoke to the Doctor between excited pants as his lungs ached for breath,

"Compliments, sir! We've taken the Alexandretta!"

An appraising glance at the young man heaving in the threshold of his sick bay made the Doctor's heart leap into his throat, for the sight of crimson staining the boy's shirtfront and spattered across his cheek indicated a grave wound. Yet the twinkle that winked in the lad's blue eyes - an unmistakable mark of exuberance that never seemed to leave his face – told Maturin that the young midshipman had at last tasted battle. How sad, the Hippocratic man mused to himself, that such a violent occupation so obviously agreed with the boy. It was a shame Blakeney's more benign talents were not so easily glorified in the eyes of home and pocketbook, for Stephen had considered how fine a junior partner the lad might make in his scientific exploits. Ah well, perhaps in another lifetime...

The good Doctor's reverie was suddenly broken yet again by more loud and desperate shouting, this time far from his ears and growing closer by the moment. A renewed glance at the young Mr. Blakeney instantly chilled the blood in Stephen's veins, for the sparkle he had witnessed in the young man's eyes had been snuffed out like a candle flame, replaced only with a dark and mysterious fear as they followed the figure careening toward them in the smoky gloom of the hold.

Again, grasping ahold of his senses, Stephen recognized the urgent voice of Thomas Pullings bellowing his name, the approaching form taking the shape of two men as the First Lieutenant hauled his listing, dragging compatriot with one arm. His mind now free from previous distractions, the Doctor could make out the man's words,

"Doctor! Doctor, it's the Captain!"

And it was, in that moment, hearing his dear friend's title spoken in such a damning way, that a portion of Stephen Maturin wished the _Alexandretta_ had bested them after all.

A hush descended on the sick bay as Pullings struggled to heave the denser form of his captain over the threshold and onto the table, Higgins rushing forward to assist the Lieutenant as Aubrey's head lolled back bonelessly when consciousness abandoned him. The cries of the wounded were silenced so effectively by such a shocking sight - their captain nearly reaching that of invincibility in the eyes of an adoring crew - that one might not even sense their presence; splinters were forgotten, cuts and contusions were ignored entirely, and those nursing more serious injuries merely bit down on their tongues. Nothing was more important than their captain, and no man aboard would be the one to deprive the man of any aid for their own sake.

Any optimism as to the gravity of Jack's injuries were effectively drowned when Stephen took note of the great pool of blood spreading across the man's torso as he pulled the Captain's jacket away from the wound. Looking to the First Lieutenant's pale and perspiring face, he asked the dreaded question despite having an overwhelming desire to avoid it altogether - his professionalism overcoming any personal reservations.

"What happened, Mr. Pullings?"

"The action was very intense when we boarded her, sir. I must say I lost sight of the Captain when the _Alexandretta's_ crew overwhelmed us on the deck," the young man paused then to look most guiltily at the prone form on the table, but one expectant look from the Doctor bade him to continue. "The cry then came up of surrender and I busied myself with getting the prisoners squared away. I sent Mr. Blakeney to the Surprise to relay the news and as I was walking amongst the fallen I found the Captain lying near the quarterdeck."

"What of their captain," Maturin asked as he reached to separate Jack's shirt and expose the wound, one look toward Higgins sending the man scurrying for fresh needle and thread.

"He's dead, sir. Cut clean through."

The room again went deathly silent as the Doctor tore the shirt with one great resounding rip, bringing the extent of the Captain's injuries into full view; Stephen instantly regretted the action.

From the left underside of his breast to the righthand underside of his ribs ran an incision with an unstemmable flow of dark crimson that welled from deep within, the telltale marks left by one last desperate attack of cutlass blade. So weary from the battle, his nerves frayed to their last possible edges, the sight of so mortal a wound nearly caused tears to well in the stoic Doctor's eyes, but he quickly willed them away. Such displays would never dignify an impassive minister of healing, nor would Jack wish such emotiveness around his crew. Instead, Maturin merely stole a deep breath quickly through his nose and squared his shoulders to compose himself when Higgins returned, trotting to them with curved needle and sinew in hand.

"Doctor," Pullings asked tentatively, voice wavering ever-so-slightly as he beheld the sight of his captain lying still and unnaturally pale on the surgeon's table.

Their gazes met at the young man's open question hanging heavily in the air. Every man in the room looked expectantly towards their resident miracle worker, but the Doctor found himself at a loss for any optimistic words nor handsome lies that might calm their fears.

Despite his every wish and prayer to the opposite, Stephen knew, deep within his heart of hearts, that it would be a battle they would not win – not this time. Never had he witnessed a man overcome such a blow in all his years of medicine. There would be no coin trick for him to magically perform this time…

"I don't know," Stephen replied honestly into the desperately hopeful eyes of their First Lieutenant, only to watch the man's countenance visibly sink along with every other's in the room.

Straightening and squaring his chin to the Doctor, Pullings nodded his gratitude wordlessly, gathering himself into every inch of the professional naval officer. With one last tiny, flickering gaze at his captain - fearing not in whose hands he was leaving the man but instead that when he turned he may never see the man alive again – the young man turned gracefully on heel and strode upward toward the sunlit world above them. Blakeney looked mournfully torn between staying with his mentor or returning to his duty, but Maturin merely nodded at the questioning look he received from the boy before the lad turned tail and disappeared after Mr. Pullings, looking close to shedding tears.

Stephen found himself in the unusual position of feeling overwhelming gratitude for Padeen and even Higgins as the two men appeared unbidden, setting to work settling the wounded into their hammocks and steering away those that might ogle and gawk at the vulnerable image of their captain laid open so.

Often, when such a surgery was being performed, the Doctor found a great pride blossoming in his chest at the captivation his techniques brought the crew, their morbid fascination a strange salve on his often-bruised ego. Yet now, Stephen felt no such pride, nor did curious faces attempting to peer at the insides of his patient bring any semblance of satisfaction to his soul. Instead, he found himself growling, animalistic, at any layman that dared to approach the table, a strange protectiveness overcoming him as he toiled to sew his friend into some semblance of a whole man again.

After what seemed like hours of passing sinew through the wound, bringing the great gaping thing together inch by inch as Aubrey continued to lay still and quiet under his furiously working hands, Maturin mopped a limp sleeve across his flushed brow. With a final flurry of fingertips, the last knot had been tied and a row of neat enough stitches remained where open flesh had once been. With the Doctor's other patients squared away and tended to, Higgins reappeared to assist in bandaging Jack's trunk-like torso snug as a package at Christmas.

With the help of Padeen's hulking figure, the three men brought Jack's limp form to rest in the one solid berth in the sick bay. Stephen mothered about the man while his two assistants looked on with knowing sympathy, the Doctor determined to make sure the man was sufficiently covered against the shock that would soon set in. All three men knew that, truly, blankets would not be successful in keeping death at bay; for though the wound no longer openly poured blood, the great damage done within was the gravest.

Satisfied that the pale form of his friend looked slightly less like death incarnate, Stephen sunk with indescribable weariness into a chair when his legs refused to hold him, finding his hands had renewed their cursed shaking of earlier. Passing a hand through his thinning brown hair in a vain attempt to stop its blasted quaking, the Doctor raised eyes heavenward to the waning light of sunset filtering through the hatchways, the sounds of officers and crewmen bustling about above their heads.

It was going to be a _long_ night…


	2. Chapter II

As the sun sank below the horizon, endless ripples of blue-grey water stretching as far as the eye could behold, the crew of the _HMS Surprise_ could not be heard in their usual boisterous revelry following the capture of such a lucrative prize. Instead of resting clustered together above decks in amiable entertainment, taking in the gentle night breezes along with their evening grog ration, the men hung together in murmuring, agitated knots as the fate of their captain hung delicately in the balance.

No one dared strike up the fife player to ease away the evening doldrums or the black mood that had descended upon them all. Not one man dared to speak even above a harsh whisper, for the precious little news they received from the sick bay had not succeeded in lifting their spirits. Their leader, known for his incredible prowess at sea and undefiable luck in battle, was fighting for his life; and from the state of the First Lieutenant's appearance on his return from the Captain's bedside, the pallor of the man's face was an instant answer to the question floating through the huddles of men.

Their captain was dying.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, Stephen Maturin passed a hand over his friend's raggedly rising and falling chest, breathing a small sigh of relief when - upon each attempt – he felt the flutter of the man's breath under the mound of blankets that swaddled Aubrey's still form. The Doctor had tried valiantly to occupy himself within the sick bay, to keep his morose thoughts from filtering back toward his friend, but the endeavor was soon rendered useless; for with every moment he passed by the man's bunk, assessing eye inevitably straying on the prone, pale form that looked so very small and vulnerable lying there, that his heart would leap into his throat.

The dread would overcome him in great waves every time he approached his friend's bedside, for Stephen feared each time he leaned over the berth to search the man's face, he would instead find sightless grey eyes staring up at him.

Discovering his other patients to be a remarkably hardy lot, his ministrations were quickly fended away by all but the most desperate for the sake of their captain. The Doctor eventually abandoned his uselessly busying efforts and instead drew a chair to Jack's bedside – anxieties becalmed only when his eyes never strayed from Jack's cocooned form.

Upon regaining consciousness for the first time, Jack had immediately reacted in a flurried rush of flailing limbs, nearly causing the physician to throw himself over the man to prevent him from further injury, for the captain's mind had remained unaware the battle no longer raged over his head; in his mind, foggy with pain and confusion, the Alexandretta had yet to be taken. Yet despite the clammy, grey pallor of his skin and the ragged wheezes that escaped from his chest, Jack's conscious mind had been quick to clear, for the first words from his lips were a demand to see his First Lieutenant.

Perhaps, despite the pained delirium slurring his speech and numbing his senses, Jack too had been aware of the urgency his situation demanded, for he was most emphatic in his request – snatching his friend and healer's sleeve and repeating it many times despite the Doctor's reassurances.

That evening, word had quickly spread through the ship like fire amongst dry kindling that the Captain was conscious at last, setting the seamen to murmuring about as Mr. Pullings had nearly flown from the quarterdeck to the sick bay at the summons. As the younger officer passed the threshold expectantly, Maturin had been quick to meet the man with a level stare of warning as the Captain had strained from his prone position to speak with the man, babbling on about orders, prisoners, and prize crews in the seamanlike jargon Jack was so fond of employing and that Stephen had yet to decipher.

Seeing that his captain appeared to be skirting around death's door for the moment, Pullings had immediately relaxed as he relayed their current situation to his commander, even allowing some excitement to filter into his voice as he spoke of the _Alexandretta_ and the great welcome that would await them in Portsmouth.

Stephen had allowed his mind to drift away from conversations not meant for his ears then, though he had not distanced himself entirely, noting that with every word the breathlessness and fatigue in Jack's ragged voice grew more pronounced. Soon enough, the physician had noticed his friend could barely keep his eyes open as Aubrey fought the creeping exhaustion with every fiber of his stubborn being.

One curt look toward Mr. Pullings told the young man the conference must close, for the moment the Lieutenant ceased talking did the Captain's eyes flutter closed as consciousness deserted him a second time.

"Will he recover, do you think, Doctor," asked the younger man as he stood to leave, glancing with great empathy at his commanding officer lying there looking so very mortal.

Meeting the man's eyes from behind wire-rimmed spectacles, Maturin answered with an expression that betrayed his lack of faith in his own words, "I pray he does, Mr. Pullings, as do we all."

That had been many hours ago; now, Stephen found himself waking under the flickering, dim light of the lantern swinging gently above his head, a great stretch bringing some semblance of feeling to return to his stiff arms and legs. Whatever genius mind invented the sitting stool had never intended for it to be used as a berth for the night, of that the Doctor and his grumbling back were quite sure of.

Swiping the spectacles that listed to one side from his nose, he pressed fingertips to his eyes in a vain attempt to rub the weariness out of them. _There's this blasted feverishness again_ , he thought in frustration as he wiped tiny beads of perspiration from his face.

 _This is no time to fall ill_ , he chastised himself; not when his closest companion hung so fragilely to life.

Stephen glanced absently toward the man ensconced in the berth beside his chair, only to feel every nerve in his body bring themselves to life with a start when suddenly, in that moment, a feral hand shot out blindly from underneath the bedcoverings. Surprised by the strength with which the man waved his arm about, searching for what the healer did not know, Stephen caught the wild sleeve in a grounding grip.

The moment Jack felt the contact, his body went limp as though the effort had thoroughly taxed him, chest rising and falling quickly as he greedily gulped air into his lungs with great difficulty. It was then, feeling the blood within his veins turn icy cold, that Stephen saw the grey eyes darting from side to side sightlessly. He strained forward to catch the words pouring from the feverishly moving lips.

"Stephen? Is that you?"

"Yes, I'm here, Jack. Try to lie still," Stephen found himself soothing his patient, stomach turning leaden as he felt the thready pulse fluttering against Aubrey's wrist.

Jack swallowed thickly then at the calming rumble of his friend and healer's voice, eyes still dancing from side to side – searching.

"Why are there no lanterns lit, Stephen? I cannot see a damn thing in this darkness," came the unexpected query, spoken with surprising force considering the weakness rapidly overtaking the man. Maturin felt a sudden fondness sweep over him, warming him slightly despite the chill growing in the room. Even upon death's door, Jack remained his ever impatient, crotchety self.

Yet when faced with answering such a question, the truth could not be formed in words on Stephen's tongue. How does one, even a physician of healing, tell his patient that such were the effects when death was near? He could not bear to tell his dear friend, who had been so full of vitality and a thirst for life, that his wounds were slowly killing him. How could he admit to Jack that all the trust the man had placed upon him was for naught? So, Stephen did what he had been told was his most prolific skill; he lied.

Trying to disguise the tremors that were attempting to take over his voice, Maturin replied, "Y-you sustained some powder burns in the action. I have bandaged your e-eyes."

A look of confusion passed over the pale face, Jack then attempting to raise a hand and touch the dressing in question but - stifling the emotion that threatened to tear from his throat with a cry - Stephen pinned the wrist to the bunk to still the aimlessly fumbling fingers.

"Stephen," came the questioning voice again, this time much softer, almost child-like in its tone.

"Yes, Jack?"

"I cannot feel my legs."

Maturin closed his eyes then in a vain effort to collect himself, unable to stand the meek fear that crept into the Captain's wavering voice, so very unlike the brash and confident man he had come to know. Aubrey's breathing no longer heaved but now grew shallow and more labored with every passing minute; it was almost as though he was growing drowsy with sleep.

"The laudanum," Stephen ground out through a throat constricted with emotion. "Laudanum can cause such sensations."

God forgive him for such a blatant lie.

It seemed Jack Aubrey, whether aware of his true condition or not, forgave the Doctor of his sins, for he then murmured a whisper of gratitude before the pale, shining eyelids fluttered closed and his body relaxed into the berth that cradled him. For a moment, Stephen feared the end had come, but another press of fingertips to the man's wrist sensed a heart still beat - barely, but tangible nonetheless. The physician rested his flushed face in both hands, never having felt such a helplessness in all the time he had practiced medicine.

His most grievous failure was at hand. He knew the crew would forgive him for this terrible breach of trust. The officers would be disheartened yet understanding, pardoning. Jack himself would not hold such a blunder against him, were he to live. But how could he, Stephen Maturin, physician and preserver of the living, ever forgive himself?

* * *

"Doctor! I wish to consult the Captain regarding the-"

Lieutenant Pullings clambered down the ladder rungs and into the sick bay with all the subtlety of a Royal garrison on parade, his dark eyes shining with almost childish excitement at the prospect of his new prize, chart clutched in one hand as he waved it about to signal the urgency of the situation. Striding purposefully toward where the Doctor and his captain stood out in the gloom, darting around the hammocks blocking his path, Pullings suddenly became aware his hails were not being received. Dodging an empty canvas, he rushed forward to repeat the exuberant message - only to be suddenly and effectively drawn short; the enthusiasm draining from every fiber of his being at the sight which lay before him.

Maturin sat next to the Captain's berth, a chair having been drawn to its side in obvious preparation for the long vigil ahead, face pale and awash with mysterious emotions as he gazed upon his patient's still form. Stretched out as though to touch Aubrey's face was the Doctor's hand, fingers poised over the grey eyes which seemed to watch their hovering intently.

It was then that Stephen looked up toward the noisy intruder at last, gaze suspiciously swimming as it broke away to acknowledge the Lieutenant's presence. As if to answer the unspeakable question which lay between them, the Doctor turned back without a word and drew his fingers over the Captain's eyelids, closing them with such finality that caused Pullings to feel his stomach drop with dread. It was not possible!

"Is he-" the Lieutenant asked uselessly, voice only to be whisked away when his throat stuck painfully. He could not bring himself to finish as he gazed upon the sight, mission entirely forgotten; his Captain - his mentor - his _friend_ lay so pale and still on the bunk, almost as though he were not dead, but merely asleep; it appeared all he must do was reach over and wake him.

Yet one glance at Maturin, eyes closed briefly in silent grief for his dearest companion as he pulled the wool blanket towards the man's chin - hand suddenly freezing before it could go any higher to cover the Captain's face - was enough to cement the reality of the moment into the young man's mind.

Lucky Jack Aubrey was _dead_.

Stephen watched his friend's most trusted First Lieutenant sink down onto the adjoining empty bunk with a look of grievous shock on his face, the gravity of the situation nearly bringing the man to his knees, chart clutched eagerly only moments before falling softly to the floor as if to punctuate the moment. Unable to bring himself to cover the face of the man that had only moments before spoken to him, the Doctor tucked the blanket around Aubrey's chin reverently - with a tenderness that Pullings noted mournfully looked like a mother settling their child into bed. Only this child would never wake again, for his eternal resting place would soon be the bottom of the sea.

Both men stared blindly at the still figure upon the berth in stricken silence, too dumb with raw grief and disbelief to speak aloud, finding themselves wishing that the sight before them was some strange vision of their dreams. Looking then toward the Lieutenant with a wistfully sad expression, the Doctor murmured, so quietly the younger man strained to hear over the creaking of the hull and the sounds of the men - alive and well - above them,

"It would seem you have command now, _Captain_ Pullings."

The First Lieutenant had yearned from boyhood to hear those words, yet now, he found the title left quite a bitter taste on his tongue. Pullings vowed then, feeling the weight of responsibility press heavily on his shoulders, that he would uphold his captain's wishes and attempt to replicate the strength with which he had commanded; starting with the physician the Captain had held in such high regard.

Pullings would keep a close watch over Maturin in the coming days, as the anguish in the man's eyes as he beheld his dead friend indicated the Doctor might consider leaping over the rail and into the sea a viable alternative to this reality.

Truly, witnessing the distress on the man's face, such actions were not entirely implausible. One such officer had already proven that fact…


	3. Chapter III

" _Jack?_ "

The physician had lain so quietly in his hammock that the sudden frantic call startled the dosing watchman from his seat, nearly sending the man toppling from his perch and to the floor of the sick bay. Quick to find his sea legs after being so rudely interrupted from what precious sleep he had succeeded in capturing those last few hours, Jack Aubrey returned his weary bones to where they had rested all night, patting his friend's sweat-soaked arm as the man writhed against unseen demons yet again.

" _Belay_ , Doctor, I'm still here," he murmured reassuringly, thankful for the sake of his command image that the wheedling tones could not be caught by any layman ear. His friend squirmed in his hammock as though he were being devoured by a thousand of his specimens - the fevers that had ravaged them all now coursing through the healer's body. What irony, that in saving them all he had doomed himself to a similar fate.

As Jack reached for the tin cup and again pressed it doggedly against Stephen's cracked lips, he mused at his great luck - to be given a true physician, a man who plied his trade with such conviction and passion. They had surely benefited from his caring ministrations over the years; and Captain Jack Aubrey would be damned before he allowed such an asset to his vessel to slip from his fingers - fever or no fever!

It was after a few minuscule drops had spilled from the cup into Stephen's wildly moving lips, murmuring words so breathlessly they were incomprehensible, that Killick appeared wraith-like (as was his wont) at Jack's elbow. In his hands were held what suspiciously looked like a china cup steaming with fresh coffee and a little plate laden with leftover supper beef and a wedge of cheese. Hardly startled by his steward's sudden appearance, the Captain merely set the water cup down after another unsuccessful attempt and made a reverent noise toward the man's offerings, smiling fondly to himself as the elder man fussed about in his usual way - grumbling all the while.

"What good the Doctor did, savin' ya from this cursed plague only to see ya starve y'self of sleep and sustenance!"

"Thank you, Killick," Aubrey replied absentmindedly as he positioned the napkin given him on his knee, taking the plate shoved unceremoniously into his hands. "that'll do."

Taking a delicate sip of his cup, Jack could not help but chuckle into its contents as he listened to his servant shuffle back into the darkness, growling softly to himself about cursed ships, their mad captains, and the deserved appreciation he was due but would never see in his lifetime. The man was a bitter old sod, caviling and harassing - yet entirely irreplaceable, if the rich coffee warming Jack's gullet was any indication.

Sighing contentedly into his first bite of meat and cheese, the Captain of the _Surprise_ gazed again on his charge, who had in the recent commotion become motionless again, the only sign of life against the pale, fevered skin was the ragged rising and falling of the man's chest. What dreams could his friend be seeing to make him twitch so?

When the fever had ravaged his own body, Jack had felt his conscious mind being carried away like the wind in his ship's sails, transporting him to a place where sounds and sights mixed together like a stormy sea and time lost all semblance of meaning; it had been strangely comforting, Jack remembered - to be so removed from his duty and the reality of command. Nothing was of consequence in such a void.

Yet Stephen had not been blessed with such experiences, it seemed; for he writhed and squirmed and whimpered most pitifully - as though the worst nightmares were being paraded through his mind's eye.

What calamity could possess his dreams with such viciousness? Perhaps, Aubrey mused to himself, he should be thankful he did not already know the answer.

Gathering the last morsels from his plate with the pad of his index finger, he set the china aside and turned again to the water cup, its brim full and shimmering in the light of the lantern swinging gently above them as though to mock his useless efforts. Jack frowned at the utensil as if to will its contents into the Doctor's mouth. The man _must_ drink, even if he had to hold Maturin's nose and force the liquid in, much as it would pain Jack to do so.

Yet when he grasped the tin cup and turned to address his patient, perhaps to plead his case despite the sick man surely comprehending nothing he said, Jack Aubrey was met with a startlingly lucid pair of milky blue eyes staring back at him. The sight nearly surprised the man into dropping the cup clutched in his hand, but his composure was stayed as Stephen's gaze bore into his own; it was as if the man was looking into his very soul.

"You're dead," came the voice clawing its way from the dry and disused throat. It was not a question the Doctor posed, but a statement, confusing the Captain even more.

The dead man stared down at his white shirtfront in confusion, wondering if he had somehow missed that very important piece of information, only to be satisfied that no blood poured from any wounds and he remained in command of his senses. Another appraising glance at the pallor of Stephen's face indicated the man still did not believe his own eyes. So, Captain Aubrey did what came naturally; he made a jest out of the ludicrous statement.

"Am I? I thought myself a little ragged 'round the edges, perhaps," he shrugged then, causing a little water to escape over the cup's brim and onto the floor. "but not to such a degree as _death."_

Entirely unfazed by the quip, Stephen's voice wavered minutely as he repeated himself, expression like one who was seeing a man from beyond the grave, "I watched you die."

Jack flinched then, unused to the close scrutiny of his friend's penetrating gaze, for he was deeply troubled by the realization that the good Doctor's nightmares had been on his account. What terrible apparitions had his person been the cause of?

"My dear Stephen," Aubrey began, amiably patting the still arm in awkward reassurance. "This damnable fever has been playing tricks on you."

"As you can see," he continued, spreading arms wide as if to prove his words. "I am quite alive."

At this, the Doctor's eyes closed, head falling away from his friend and into the pillow as though the sight pained him; the shaking in his limbs beginning anew as reality washed over his muddled senses at last. Could it all have been only a dream?

"Thanks to you," came Jack's addendum, equal parts the offering of appreciation it was and the comfort it was meant to be.

Reaching a quavering hand to his brow, Stephen caught the cuff of his nightshirt and dragged it across his perspiring face, finding the inestimable weariness overcoming him and the tepidness of his skin a sign that victory over this fever was close at hand. Suddenly discovering his mouth felt as parched as an Arab desert, the Doctor reached out in silent request for the tin cup Jack still held, forgotten, in his hand. The pinched expression on Aubrey's worried brow immediately gave way to one of great and happy satisfaction as Maturin downed the cup's contents in one enterprising gulp – only for it to quickly reappear on Jack's face when the good Doctor's disused pipes rejected the liquid and set him to coughing quite haggardly.

Jack heartily thumped on his friend's back as the man lurched forward, gently mumbling words of chastisement at the hasty action, only ceasing his efforts when the Doctor at last batted the fretting hand away. Rubbing away the water that had welled into his eyes, Stephen cocked a smile gratefully toward his friend's ministrations, his mind at last clearing of the deep fog that had engulfed it – no longer clouded by the strange hallucinations his mind had conjured in his fever dreams. The reality was that Jack Aubrey lived, much to Stephen's great, overwhelming relief that swelled through every fiber of his being.

Yet now that his mind had begun to function in its usual quick-witted capacity, the reality of their situation returned to the forefront of his thoughts, causing Maturin to sit up quickly with the realization – much to Jack's dismay, if his almost pouting expression was any indication. Never could it be said that Doctor Maturin languished about for the sake of his own health when there were patients that needed tended, even if those patients were only imaginary. Satisfied that the flush returning to his friend's face (a much-needed change from the pale, grey tint it had taken on in days prior) was a sign that the fever was retreating at last, Jack allowed himself to settle Stephen's worries – for it gave him great pleasure to know the physician cared so deeply for his men.

"The men that were stricken, were they-" the Doctor asked urgently, pausing to allow the question to hang between them when he feared the answer he might receive. He need not have worried, however, for Jack was quick on his heels with an answer, small smile an indication his worries were unfounded.

"Cleared for their duties a day or so ago," Jack finished his friend's question with great satisfaction, chest puffed out with pride at another example of Stephen's successful physicking.

"And what of Mr. Blakeney," Stephen continued, desperate to be appraised of the goings on in his absence. Though the lad had been quite fit and strong when the fevers had claimed him, the man could not help but feel a particular, paternal concern wash over him. "Has he recovered also?"

"Indeed, he has," Aubrey nodded gravely, with great fondness in his voice. "You'll be happy to know he was skylarking above decks just this afternoon."

Hearing this, Stephen's shoulders sagged as the tension left them, murmuring as he closed his eyes briefly in happy relief, "Good. Good."

Cocking an eye open, its blue irises flicking up and down Jack's weary form perched on the stool beside him, the physician in Stephen sprang to life after only a momentary hiatus, assessing the Captain's tired features; for despite knowing now that what he had witnessed was only a strange dream, the man still felt a strange protectiveness overcome him all the same. Perhaps what he had seen in his mind's eye had been a warning sent from above – a warning to pay closer attention to the welfare of his most cherished friend; perhaps he had been awarded a second chance, one which he would not hesitate to grasp with all his might…

"Are you sure you've quite recovered," Stephen asked tentatively, honest concern drowning the righteous indignation that might have sprung from Jack's chest at the question.

Inclining his head graciously, Jack nodded, quipping with a pat to his strong girth for emphasis, "I'm in fine fettle, Doctor, I assure you."

Content with the simple answer that had been given him, Stephen leaned back into the soft embrace of the canvas hammock that enveloped him, finding sleep had begun its steady, creeping march into his bones, weighing down his eyelids and drawing the tension from his limbs. Amiable silence had overtaken the two men, lulled into contentment by the realization that the trial was at last behind them, and neither one was to lose the other this day – either from real or imagined threats. The gentle creaking of the timber from all around them set a quiet background accompaniment to their silent thoughts, but as was Jack's wont in such moments of solitude in each other's company, such coveted instances begged for a musical interlude.

"I feel inclined toward a bit of fiddling. Does Bach agree with you tonight?"

Barely had the Doctor's mouth opened to reply an affirmative did a violin appear in Jack's hands like dark, gypsy magic, mysteriously at the ready as though this moment had been awaited with great anticipation.

"I should like that very much," Stephen replied, finding himself eager to hear Jack's uncommon talent of plying lovely tones from the violin's strings. "Even a little Boccherini wouldn't go amiss."

Grinning broadly, the Captain of the _Surprise_ nestled his cheek against the bosom of his instrument, grinning wickedly as he quipped, "Very well! Anything for my patient."

Counting the measure quietly under his breath before striking out into the first crisp tones of the melody, Aubrey's foot set to tapping on the planks as he scraped away with his bow, entire being lost in the piece. Stephen hummed reverently to himself at the man's choice of music, nestling his head into his pillow and nodding along as he lost himself in his friend's skillful playing.

All was right with the world.

And if Preserved Killick, bustling about in the galley and growling orders to his fretting assistant, heard the high tones filtering through the timber of the hold and set himself to grumbling about in his usual way whenever the Doctor and his captain came together for impromptu concertos, only he would know of the small smile that caught in the corner of his mouth at the much-missed sounds coming from the sick bay. Nodding fondly toward the music floating to their ears, Killick hid his satisfaction in the coals of the stove as he banked the dwindling fire within.

Truly, their little wooden world had been spared the casualties of war this day.

* * *

 _Fin_


End file.
